spacehogs: you always knew what you were talking about.

 

big

[BIG]

things are happening.

stay tuned . . .

this will blow the lid off.

and, yes, the above photo is involved . . .

and then this happened.

okay, so you might not be able to tell.

but THAT, people, is a broken nose.

i didn’t get punched in the face except that i absolutely got punched in the face.

by a door.

blood.

everywhere.

on the walls.

[how the fuck did blood get on the walls? he says. i don’t know, jackass, you tell me. you’re the one who opened the door on my face. i said.]

409 and a roll of paper towels handled what looked like a murder scene.

blue moon and an orange is handling how i feel about this whole situation.

it’s multifunctional.

because let’s be honest: solo cups serve two purposes.

one. drinking keg beer like a frat boy who is way too underage to publically manhandle a bottle of some horrifyingly bad beer (think: bud light) just.in.case. the fuzz rolls in and shuts the party down, thus avoiding a free ride to the local slammer for being way too underage to publically manhandle a bottle of some horrifyingly bad beer. (still thinking: bud light)

and.

two. trapping bugs.

i came home the other day from a shoot which had required me to put two feet on the floor before the clock even read anything remotely close to 4:00am and found this.

with explanation.

djm: i trapped one of those long skinny bugs with a thousand legs under that cup.

marcy: okay.

djm: i chased him and suffocated him.

marcy: okay.

 

fast forward to something like 4 days.

it’s still here.

[quite obviously, as i just took this photo 7 minutes ago.]

you trapped it. you deal with it.

i can only imagine what’s inside is the carcass of said long skinny bug with a thousand legs.

but i can equally imagine that while nestling within the pitch-black of its new prison-like environment, and all kinds of pissed off, it deemed it wise to set vengeance upon the human species, thus laying a copious amount of eggs, and is (as we speak) anticipating that coveted moment when the cup is lifted and a billion creatures run full-steam across the kitchen floor.

either scenario isn’t one i’m prepared to take the reigns on.

you trapped it. you deal with it.

and as for the empty arizona iced tea and apple juice bottles also taking up residence on the kitchen floor:

you would think they’re there awaiting recycling day when the world stops for a moment and goes green in attempt to save some sector of the universe.

but they’re not.

there are no recycling options at this (soon-to-be-vacated) abode.

which i think might straddle some line of legality.

never mind moral ethics.

my posture a’int great and neither is my american-bred-english language.

i used to have pristine posture.

the kind people would envy.

but it came at a price that i still haven’t come to terms with.

40 hours a week in a ballet studio. 40 hours a week of staring at myself practically NAKED in a room full of girls who were also practically NAKED. 40 hours a week of trying to be perfect. 40 hours a week of trying to have the best posture . . . the best turn-out . . . the best legs . . . the best collar bones . . . (yup, there is such a thing. who knew.) . . . the best arabesque . . . the best everything.

fast forward to 3 knee surgeries, a little growing up, and a resignation to the ballet world . . .

[before it killed me from the waist down]

. . .

. . . and i tend to slouch.

like.

all.

the.

time.

 

is this a subconscious act of rebellion?

[of all the photos i could have selected. this one. this is the one. because

(a) try and put your leg in that position above your head and not pull a muscle in your back. i dare you.

(b) it’s just so seemingly random.

(c) this is one of the very few pieces we ever danced in flats and dancing in flats meant that were weren’t dancing in pointe shoes and anything that gave our feet a break from balancing on our tippy-toes, crammed inside some satin and a block of wood, was a good thing.

(d) this was one of my favorite pieces of choreography. ever. more favorite than swan lake. but not more favorite than the nutcracker which i still, to this day, can not sit through because it yields a nostalgia that is almost unbearable.

 

oh.

 

and i curse like a sailor.

 

one has nuthin’ to do with the other.

 

so, there’s that.